


Holding On

by AuroraExecution



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Grantaire Angst, Holding Hands, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-18 01:13:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraExecution/pseuds/AuroraExecution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire holds on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holding On

**Author's Note:**

> Written September 2011. Inspired by the song "Broken" by Lifehouse.

It was April when Courfeyrac first pointed out the new student to him, and Grantaire thought the newcomer must have gotten lost on his way down from Mount Olympus, but Courfeyrac said no, his name was Enjolras and he was a rich boy from the Midi.  Of course, Courfeyrac had already met him, because Courfeyrac had an uncanny knack for knowing everyone, so he spent that lecture telling Grantaire all about Enjolras—his cleverness, his skills at the gymnasium, his considerable attraction of ladies’ attentions, and, most interestingly, the grand ideas that he believed in so strongly. 

Courfeyrac introduced them after class, on the steps of the college of Law.  Enjolras was unexpectedly charming and certainly quite passionate about his political views.  By the time there was enough of a gap to properly respond, Grantaire was smiling fondly as he reached out and shook Enjolras’s hand. 

He held on for longer than he should have, distracted by Enjolras’s fervor, and did not let go. 

* * *

Later, in May, Grantaire saw Enjolras at the gymnasium, handily beating a rather decent single-sticks player with no mercy.  Grantaire could not help challenging Enjolras after that, and the two dueled in what was sure to be a memorable battle. 

Grantaire was all mischief and mockery, whereas Enjolras was careful technique.  For all his intense skill, Enjolras could not block the blows Grantaire made to his hands or the jabs that unraveled his cravat, because Enjolras’s training had focused on defending the vital areas, and he had never encountered someone who did not fight as such. 

In addition, Grantaire observed that Enjolras seemed entirely unaccustomed to losing at single-sticks, and was struggling a little to adjust to Grantaire’s admittedly unconventional fighting style.  But Grantaire’s weakness was his fondness for mischief.  Even as he tried again to beat off Enjolras’s cravat, the godlet saw an opening and struck—and Grantaire found himself flying backwards and landing hard on the ground quite a distance away. 

When Grantaire looked up again, Enjolras was standing before him with a slight smile on his usually serious face and holding out a pale hand.  Grantaire took it, and found it warmer than he would have guessed. 

He held on for longer than he should have, as he pulled himself to his feet, and did not let go. 

* * *

It was December, Grantaire would later remember.  On a bitterly cold winter’s day, Enjolras sat beside him and read, and the warmth mingled between them. 

Grantaire had found himself enamored of the beautiful golden boy, whose serious expressions and passionate declarations carried their own source of light.  Without light of his own, Grantaire was inevitably drawn to this young Apollo, and worshipped him. 

Apollo was with him now, and Grantaire could scarcely believe he was awake.  It was as though, if he were to open his eyes, he would suddenly find that Enjolras had never been here at all, and in reality the world was far darker. 

A warm cheek touched his shoulder.  Grantaire looked over to see Enjolras lying asleep against him, his serious face uncommonly open and brilliant.  With a smile, Grantaire quietly took Enjolras’s hand in his own. 

He held on for longer than he should have, feeling as though this could be the last time, and did not let go. 

* * *

Time passed, and they both changed.  Once they were two young, naïve students, still unfamiliar with the ways of the world, but the years matured them. 

Enjolras threw himself into his work with his ideas of revolution and change and equality.  He became something separate from his human self—a marble statue, perhaps, in whom the ideals of Rousseau were embodied.    

Meanwhile, as Enjolras metamorphosed into an ideal, Grantaire faded.  Enjolras’s world expanded in terms of his republican aspirations, but the flesh-and-blood Enjolras was cut down to a minimum.  Grantaire lost his place in Enjolras’s life, and nothing else seemed to take a turn for the better.  Already a skeptic, Grantaire became a cynic.  Already a lover of wine, he became a drunkard. 

But, on a warm September night at the Musain after he had woken from his stupor in the dead of night, he saw a lone candle burning in the darkness, illuminating Enjolras’s sleeping face.  Grantaire drew near to his Apollo and looked down, recognizing the expression from another, far colder day.  It was then that he knew he was still enamored of this beautiful golden boy, and would still die for him. 

It was as though he had found something important that had been lost.  Relaxing, Grantaire gently took Enjolras’s hand, remembering that his Apollo would not awake at light pressure. 

He held on for longer than he should have, as Enjolras’s hand turned into hope for him, and did not let go. 

* * *

Somehow, Grantaire found himself standing against a wall of the Corinthe, on that sixth of June.  A line of National Guardsmen stood before him and Enjolras, their rifles raised, but Grantaire was not afraid. 

Tentatively, he reached his hand to Enjolras, who smiled as he took it. 

Grantaire held on, and on, and on. 

The report rang out. 

He did not let go. 


End file.
